


The Opening Universe (The Awful Mystery)

by golden_d



Category: Torchwood
Genre: Additional Warnings Apply, Original Character(s), Pre-Canon, References to Suicide, Suicidal Thoughts and Behaviors
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-08-08
Updated: 2011-08-08
Packaged: 2017-10-31 18:11:43
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 16,857
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/346971
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/golden_d/pseuds/golden_d
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Welcome to the year 2000 and the first Torchwood team that Jack can call his own—and they’re just as broken as he is.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Beta credit to the always amazing 51stcenturyfox; Googol is all hers.

January 15, 2000.

Dear Diary,

Today, I fell through the Rift.

It may not even be _the_ Rift, it might just be _a_ Rift, or maybe even a lowercase-r rift, but Jack said I fell through the Rift, so that's what I'll call it.

Jack is Captain Jack Harkness. I don't know what he's Captain of—retired Air Force, maybe? He sounds American, like me, but he says he's not. Maybe he's Canadian. He wears this great coat, very vintage military. It looks old, it might've been his grandfather's. Or he just picked it up at a thrift store somewhere.

He let me wear the coat for a little while today. Well, he didn't _let_ me so much as he put it on me. The elevator I was in (the lift, they call it here) crashed. It malfunctioned, or the cord snapped, or something, but the whole thing just plummeted to the ground, down fifteen stories and right through one Rift. Jack rescued me.

I'm pretty scraped up, and bruised all over, but nothing's broken. Except a couple of ribs. So nothing's broken that will actually in interfere daily life. I just won't be able to run around or get hugs from anyone, which I wouldn't be doing anyway, because evidently when you fall through the Rift you fall through space and time, which sounds like bullshit to me, but the thing is that I was here in Cardiff visiting my grandmother except evidently she _died sixty years ago_ and in this universe I was NEVER EVEN BORN.

\--

January 16, 2000.

Dear Diary,

I couldn't finish yesterday's entry. My hands were shaking too badly.

Jack put his coat on me when he pulled me out of the rubble because I was shaking then, too, and he wanted to make sure I stayed warm.

I should ask him for another blanket, or a sweater, or a coat. It's really cold in here.

"In here" is the Hub. Definitely a capital-H Hub. Jack works here and lives here. It's hidden underground, right in the middle of Cardiff. No one else seems to work here, even though there are a bunch of desks and a medical bay. I slept in the medical bay last night. He had me handcuffed to the bed— "For your own safety," he said, "I don't want you wandering off in the middle of the night." Not that I could GO ANYWHERE, since I don't know how to get out, and it's not like I _actually exist_ anymore, THANKS, JACK. And I didn't really sleep, anyway; I mean, I slept, but only after he heard me crying and came and shot me full of some kind of drug that knocked me right out.

At least he let me have paper and a pen. He's too scary to talk to and I don't have anyone else.

For now he's locked me into a conference room, which at least has more comfortable chairs. He didn't leave me any food, though. Maybe he's out grocery shopping. He hasn’t been eating anything either.

I was on my way out to pick up some curry when the elevator fell. That's one of Grandma’s and my special things—curry, and naan, and potato samosas. Mango juice. Vanilla ice cream for dessert.

Jack says there's no way for me to go back. I'm never going to see her again.

\--

January 17, 2000.

Dear Diary,

Today I ate a pizza. A whole pizza. And then I threw it up, which hurt my ribs like fuck, and he did a good job of hiding it but I'm pretty sure Jack went off afterwards and laughed himself sick. But not as sick as me. Now I'm on a diet of ginger ale and oyster crackers and some apple sauce until Jack decides that I'm well enough to eat richer foods. Maybe if he'd remembered to _feed me_ , I wouldn't have made myself sick. Maybe if he'd LET ME OUT, I could feed myself.

Evidently in this universe, in addition to me not existing, aliens _do_ exist, and his job is to sit on top of the Rift and deal with the things that fall out of it. Aliens. Alien basketballs. Televisions from the future. Shoes from 1860. All the socks that get lost in the dryer. American tourists in Cardiff.

He says I'm lucky. He says most people who fall through the Rift are from way in the past or way in the future or universes where Columbus never sailed the ocean blue and things are _insanely_ different. He spent six hours grilling me on world history, and evidently the differences between Home and Here are slight enough that, if I existed, I could manage without much problem. Just cosmetic differences, no wars that went the other way or anything (“Well, not _yet_ ,” he said, whatever that’s supposed to mean), but evidently I should avoid talking to people about who killed Kennedy, because somehow they've never managed to figure that out here. Mostly, Jack said, I'll probably just miss a lot of cultural references.

Except for the teensy, tiny little dilemma of the fact that I still don't exist.

He could probably create a new identity for me. Passport. Driver's license. A couple of expired student IDs, a library card, a work visa. Building a past would be hard, but he can't keep me here forever. I think he thinks he's taking care of me, but I think I would get better care wandering into a hospital and pretending to be an amnesiac.

I believe him when he says this isn't my world, because the apartment building he rescued me from wasn't the same one that I'd been in to start. Also, I ran a internet search when he wasn’t looking (they call it Google here—Googol doesn’t even redirect). So I believe him. But I think he might be crazy.

\--

January 18, 2000.

Dear Diary,

I got Jack to uncuff me last night. I said that if I had to pee or if I had to throw up again, then it would be better if I didn't puke on the bed or the floor. I promised I wouldn't go any further than the bathrooms. I can't shower, anyway; all I've got is a pair of increasingly grimy scrubs, and while I'm sure there's more where they came from, I'm not letting Jack see me naked.

I slept most of the day. It's easier. But I keep having nightmares about being asleep in what's essentially an autopsy theater, and then I wake up and find that it's true.

Jack brought me another blanket, though. It's pink and floral. It's really ugly. But it seemed like he tried hard to find something I would like—something about his face seemed so strangely earnest when he gave it to me—so I told him it was very nice and colorful and I greatly appreciated his bringing it for me.

Still. It keeps me warm.

\--

January 19, 2000.

Dear Diary,

Another night of being uncuffed! My life is so full of excitement.

Jack needs to know that he can trust me.

\--

January 20, 2000.

JACK I KNOW YOU'RE READING THIS I'M SORRY I SAID THE BLANKET IS UGLY I'M SURE YOU'RE NOT CRAZY AT ALL.

\--

January 21, 2000.

Dear Diary,

Turns out he wasn't kidding about there being aliens.

Turns out Jack is kind of a mean drunk.

Turns out he doesn't take kindly to insults, written or spoken.

I am never leaving these pages on their own ever again. They don't leave my person. Not even when Jack's making me scrub alien blood off the walls, which I probably shouldn't be doing, what with the _broken ribs_ and all.

I haven't seen the sun in almost a week.

\--

January 29, 2000.

Dear Diary,

Make that "two weeks." Only just now got a pen from him, though I'm going to run out of space to write soon.

On the 22nd I tried to sneak out. He was asleep and I'd slept almost all day, so I was awake and antsy. I'd seen him come through the door before, and it didn't look like there was a code to get out, so I figured that I might as well try it. I had to.

And I did. I made it out, through some kind of musty little office and a godawful _bead curtain_ , of all things. I even made it outside.

Barefoot. In the middle of the night. In January. In nothing but a disgusting pair of hospital scrubs.

I knew I wouldn't get far, but I couldn't just stand there. Even if the farthest I went was off the end of a pier, it would be better than staying with Jack.

I couldn't run, but I hobbled. I couldn't see very much—it was dark and cold and windy, and I'm sure the stars would've been beautiful if I'd bothered looking up. All I wanted was to get somewhere where Jack couldn't find me, somewhere I would be safe. Somewhere _no one_ could find me until it was too late.

It didn't work.

He hadn't been asleep.

He practically lifted me out of the water by the scruff of my neck and hauled me back to the Hub. No handcuffs this time.

It turns out that he has cells beneath the main layer. Rows and rows of glass-doored cells. Concrete floors. A little bench. A drain in the floor.

The other cells have monsters in them.

Down here it's them, and me, and I think that I will die here, Diary. I don't see how I'll manage to survive. Fear itself may be the end of me, because the monsters scream and scream day and night and lately I've started to join them.

Jack brought me new scrubs when he brought me the pen and my dinner. Later he came back and brought me the pink blanket.

I'm not sorry I said it was ugly.

And I still think he's crazy.

\--

February 12, 2000.

 

Dear Diary,

They are making me write this. “They” started out as—security guards, prison guards, I don’t know—but gradually changed to men and women in scrubs and white coats until now all the guards are gone. I’m not sure if I was hallucinating or if all the guards got fired and replaced.

One or two or three days after my last entry (for I still have those, I will not let them take those) Jack wrapped me up in the pink blanket and gave me a pair of bedroom slippers two sizes too big to wear. I think he must have dosed me with something, because he picked me up and carried me like a child and I didn't fight him. I didn't have the will or the strength.

We took a ferry to some island, and Jack hid my eyes from the sun. I could still see a bit, though. It was bright. It was beautiful. And then he carried me off the boat and into a dark passageway, and he said, "This is Flat Holm. They will take care of you here."

And the sun was gone.

These are the people he told me about last month, the ones who are changed irreparably from their travel through the Rift. The ones who are from Earth originally, and fall through to some alien planet, and then fall back. The ones who are broken by their travel or their arrival.

They have given me a room here, not a cell, although they lock me into it at night and sometimes during the day. They say I am a patient, not a prisoner. But that's what I was to Jack at first, and look how that ended up.

My room is small, but bigger than the cell. A bed, a chair, a nightstand, none of it with sharp edges or corners. And now, a notebook. And some crayons.

If I ask kindly, Diary, do you think I will receive some coloring books too? A stuffed animal? If I say the wrong thing, will they take away even this and wrap me in a straitjacket?

Oh, god, Diary.

They are making me write this so that they can read it, so that they can know I am processing, so they know my mental functions, so that my therapist can analyze it and dissect it and tell me what it all means.

I have tried to tell them: I don't need a therapist. I should not be a patient. I don't need to be here—I am _not broken_.

All they need to do is give me a chance, and I'll show them. Give me a chance to create a new life for myself, to be a human again and not some caged-up animal.

Please. Just give me a chance.

\--

February 14, 2000.

Happy Valentine's Day, Diary.

Last year I spent it with Alex and Sam and Kevin and we rented some horrible chick flicks and played drinking games. We got so sick. It was so fun.

Two years ago, I had pneumonia.

Three years ago, I was in love.

This year, I spent the day helping the nurse deliver chocolate to my fellow inmates, or at least the ones who won't attack us. She let me have an extra big share of chocolate for helping her. It was kind of her. But I have never felt less like eating chocolate in my life.

The chocolate won't make me feel less empty.

\--

February 16, 2000.

They are concerned about me because I have not moved from bed in two days. But what is the point? There is nothing for me out there.

If you are reading this, I could use some new crayons. These are getting dull and I don't have anything to sharpen them with.

\--

February 20, 2000.

Dear Diary,

Today Jack came to visit. I think he must have been bringing in a new victim, because I could hear the yelling. Maybe he didn't have drugs that would work well enough on that one.

He brought me a sixty-four box of crayons, the kind that has a built-in sharpener in the back. He probably inspected the box to make sure I couldn't dismantle it and find a way to take the sharpener out. "That should last you a while," he said.

"Yes," I said.

"I see you still have the blanket," he said.

"It keeps me warm," I said.

"Be good," he said.

"I always am," I said.

Then he left.

\--

February 21, 2000.

Dear Diary,

I think Jack must have come again overnight, because this morning when the nurse brought me my breakfast, she was also carrying a stuffed pelican. I think that his name will be Fezzik.

\--

February 26, 2000.

Dear Diary,

I think the nurses know that I'm not like the other patients. Today they let me sit in their lounge for awhile (under strict supervision, of course) and listen to them gossip. I wrapped myself up in the pink blanket, curled in a comfy chair, and let the words wash over me. It's more conversation than I've heard in over a month. More people than I've seen at one time since I fell from Home.

I wonder if my grandmother thinks I'm dead. She would've been the one who'd have had to tell my parents.

This is all such a mess.

Happy birthday, Dad.

\--

March 2, 2000.

Diary!

I got to go outside today!

Not by myself, because Jack _told them I was a flight risk_ , as if there were anywhere to go from here, but still—outside! With a nurse, but I got to see the sun and feel the breeze and smell the air and I even took off my slippers and ran around on the grass until I couldn't feel my toes anymore. The nurse yelled at me, but I didn't care. I didn't! Almost a month since the last time I'd been outside. I hope they let me out again.

I don't think I can take another month without the sunlight.

\--

March 5, 2000.

Dear Diary,

I spent the day in the nurses' lounge again. One of them showed me how to make coffee, though they didn't let me have very much. Just as well. It's been almost two months since I last had caffeine. Next to the coffee pot is an electric tea kettle. On the other side of it is a sink. Above them are cabinets. It reminds me of the tiny little apartment I had my senior year in college. All that's missing is the Ramen.

And now I miss Ramen. Who'd have thought _that_ would ever happen?

\--

March 8, 2000.

Dear Diary,

Today Jack visited again, and this time the person with him wasn't a patient. It was a woman. Not a crazy woman. Just…a woman.

I was helping one of the nurses distribute afternoon snacks, so I was out in the hall when they came in. "What is this place?" she said, sounding horrified, as they walked along. "Is this a prison?"

"It's a hospital," Jack said. "They fall through the Rift, I bring them here. They're all too altered or broken to be assimilated—or re-assimilated—into society."

They came around the corner then, saw me pushing a cart of snacks along behind the nurse. "Doesn't look too broken to me," Suzie said, and Jack laughed: "She's a nurse."

"I mean the other one," she said, and came forward to me, her hand outstretched. "I'm Suzie."

I swallowed. "I'm Jamie."

"Are you broken?"

I looked at Jack, then back at her. "No," I said firmly. "Just dented a little around the edges."

"But you're not a nurse?"

"No."

"Then you're a patient?"

"I'm a prisoner," I said, and all at once Jack protested and the nurse protested and Suzie was exclaiming loudly, and then the nurse gripped me firmly by the wrist and led me to my room, scolding all the way.

I don't know what exactly happened after that—the nurse still had work to do, and now had to do it without my help, but she must have run into Suzie and Jack on her way back. And Jack and Suzie, well…clearly they didn't realize, or care, that there isn't much soundproofing down here. I could hear their whole fight echoing up and down the halls.

She wanted to know: How could Jack keep humans here, locked up in a cage? What was wrong with me, that I was here?

And Jack said that he couldn't take care of me, but they could give me proper care here at Flat Holm. Heal the broken ribs, keep me out of trouble, deal with me so that Jack wouldn't have to. "It's Torchwood policy. If they're alive and pose a danger to themselves or others, they go to Flat Holm."

"It's a shit policy!" Suzie yelled. "I don't care what One wants us to do, we can't put _human beings_ in a cage!"

And that's what this is. A cage.

I thought for a little while that I might survive it, but I'm starting to think I might just end up killing myself by beating too hard against the bars.

\--

March 9, 2000.

The head nurse came to visit. No more sun for me.

I don't have anything else to say.

\--

March 15, 2000.

Two months. One of the nurses brought me tea. She said they miss me in the lounge, and if I stay on good behavior I might get to go there again once or twice a week. I told her they could have the pink blanket if they wanted; it would probably make for better conversation.

I think I hurt her feelings.

It was shitty tea anyway.

\--

March 17, 2000.

Happy Saint Patrick's Day, Diary, if they even celebrate that in Wales. I should be getting drunk today. Maybe I'll just ask them to shoot me up with an extra strong dosage of meds.

My sister was supposed to be having her first baby somewhere around today. I wonder if she had a girl or a boy. Maybe she'll name it after me.

God. Now I really need to get drunk.

\--

March 18, 2000.

Discovered: If you scream long enough, they will sedate you.

Guess how I managed to get through yesterday.

I know it's not healthy. But it's not like I have any other coping mechanisms at my disposal these days.

\--

March 19, 2000.

Jack visited today. Didn't really come in, just stood at the door and looked at me for awhile.

Suzie visited too. That was strange. She came in quickly and asked me, if I couldn't be Jamie anymore, then who would I want to be? I told her that I'd never want to be anyone except me. She asked, "Even in times like these?" It's a dumb question—even more in times like these. At least I still know who I am.

She asked a couple more questions—what I did back Home (working on an MFA), where I went to college (Princeton), what I studied in college (English with a concentration in creative writing), basic, stupid get-to-know-you type questions. I told her that Jack asked me all those when I first fell through and she might as well check the file, assuming he'd made one.

"Favorite color?" she asked. "I don't think he asked that one."

"Green." It's always been green, even when I was a kid.

And then she left. Later, when the nurse brought around dinner, she told me that one of the residents had died, hanged himself with a bed sheet. Jack and Suzie were here to sign off on paperwork and collect the ashes after cremation. I don't know what they did with them after that.

\--

March 21, 2000.

I don't know how he hanged himself with the bed sheet. There's nothing on the ceiling to tie it to. There's no way to hang yourself in here.

I know this because I tried.

Obviously it didn't work. Didn't even come close.

I wonder what the bastard knew that I don't.

\--

April 2, 2000.

Have spent the last couple of weeks mostly sedated. Guess they were scared for me. I probably should've been scared for me, too, but what was I going to do? Stab myself with a crayon?

It's good I was awake today, because Suzie visited.

"Here," she said, and handed me a manila folder.

I looked at it. "What is it?"

"It's you," she said. "It's your life." The folder held a passport, a driver's license, what looked like a university transcript, a visa to work and live in the UK, a wallet with a hundred pounds and a credit card.

The license has the same picture as on my real one, from Home. They probably used it as a template. "You let me keep my name," I said.

"You wanted to," she said. "And—no offense—but it doesn't matter to me if you keep it or not. It's easier to let you stay Jamie than to make up a new name."

Suzie told me that she started a lot of the work, but that her specialty is weapons, not forgery. They hired a tech expert and he did the rest.

"So Jack's just…letting me go?" I asked her. "That doesn't make sense."

She grinned. Scary kind of smile. "If Jack's going to lock you up for almost no reason, then at the very least he owes you a job once you're out. Besides: Torchwood needs a receptionist, and you don't have anywhere else to go."

And the bitch of it is, she's right.

\--

April 3, 2000.

Dear Diary,

Here's a dialogue for you. It happened on the way to the Hub.

"Why receptionist? Why can't I do something more exciting?"

"Technically, it's more of an 'office manager' position. The reception desk is a front, and there won't be that many phones to answer."

"That didn't answer my question."

"Do you know anything about aliens?"

"Uh, no.”

"Are you a doctor?"

"No."

"Especially good with computers?"

"I know how to use the internet."

"That's a no. How about guns, any experience with them?"

"No! Well. Water guns. And Nerf."

"..."

"They shoot foam darts."

"And would that ever hurt anyone?"

"Not really."

"Pointless. But you know how to answer the phone, order take-away, file things alphabetically, and stay out of the way when the shooting starts?"

"Definitely."

"And that," Suzie said, "is why you're the receptionist."

On the plus side, I am a receptionist with new clothes (new to me, anyway; I’m sure it’s all from the Welsh equivalent of the Salvation Army), and also the tiniest apartment this side of the nearest dormitory. But at least it's mine, and I don't have to share it with crazy people. Next step: Burn my scrubs. After that: buy groceries.

I hope Suzie was joking about that whole shooting thing.

\--

April 4, 2000.

Dear Diary,

First day of work was today. Mostly uneventful. Office still dusty, bead curtain still hideous. I met the computer guy, Sanjiv, who is Welsh. He's weird, but he's better than Jack.

Jack made me feed the monsters in the cells. NOT PART OF MY JOB DESCRIPTION! He says they're called Weevils, which, that's the stupidest name for a razor-toothed monster that I've heard. They might as well be called Prawns or Earthworms or something. Parakeets, maybe. Evidently the "Weevils" live in the sewers, and every so often Jack goes out hunting them. When the population gets too high, he captures a few females and brings them to the cells.

Jack is definitely crazy.

\--

April 6, 2000.

Dear Diary,

There's this new pizza place that opened nearby, Jubilee. Anyway, Sanjiv is allergic to something in the sauce, so we won't be ordering from them again anytime soon. Point being, I ordered the pizza, brought it down into the Hub, and since there wasn't anything going on, Suzie and Sanjiv let me sit and eat it with them. Jack was there too, but he was ignoring me, so it was mostly okay.

Until Sanjiv puked all over the pizza, I mean. Ugh.

In between puking, he was all, "Are you trying to murder me?" Which of course I wasn't, and I told him so, and then Suzie said, "NO, JAMIE PREFERS SUICIDE TO MURDER." (She may not have said it that loud, but I definitely heard it in all-caps.)

Jack stalked out, and I said, “Suzie, what the _fuck_?” And it hurt, that she'd say that, even if it's true, and how did she find that out, anyway?

So of course Sanjiv wanted to know what she was talking about. I didn’t want to talk about it at all, so I tried to make it a joke, and I said something along the lines of, " _You_ try being locked up with crazy people and see how you fare," but Suzie interrupted again and said, “Oh, but it started before then.”

Which isn’t true, not in this world. It was only once, with the highly ineffective bed sheet, and I told her so.

"You jumped off the end of the pier," she said. "In the middle of winter."

She may have a point about that one. But I wasn’t trying to kill myself. Compared to Jack it just seemed like the best option.

Sanjiv looked kind of green at all the talk of death. "Where'd Jack go? Think he'd want to hear all this."

"Oh, he already knows," Suzie said. "He was there for the first one, and suicide’s a sensitive subject for him anyway. Alex, the old Torchwood Three head, he killed the entire team and himself—on New Year's Eve. Didn't you know?"

Sanjiv threw up again. I spent the next couple of hours scrubbing down the Hub.

No wonder Jack is crazy.

\--

April 10, 2000.

Dear Diary,

Today some demented old lady yelled at me for not being Welsh. Look, it's not my fault. No one told me this was a Tourist Center. All of the brochures were out of date; I just figured they were trash and tossed them out when I was cleaning.

I still sold her a dragon keychain, though. All those years of working retail are finally paying off.

Sometimes I think it might’ve been better if I’d died when that elevator crashed.

\--

April 11, 2000.

Dear Diary,

I'm spending my off hours reading about Welsh history and Cardiff tourism and shit. Might as well present an educated front. Not going to fake a Welsh accent, though. I'd probably get yelled at for being drunk on the job.

Also, I used Sanjiv's expense account to order more brochures for the tourist center, plus some mugs, miniature Welsh flags, and a couple of truly hideous t-shirts. Sanjiv owes me at least that much—turns out he's allergic to soy sauce, too. I feel bad that every other thing causes him to vomit, but I'm the one who has to clean it up. Tomorrow I'm making him write me a list of everything he's allergic to, and foods he _knows_ are safe for him to eat, so that I don't order in another allergy attack. Should probably have the others do it, too.

Note to self: Try to procure an EpiPen, just in case.

\--

April 12, 2000.

_Torchwood Three Dietary Restrictions_

Sanjiv is allergic to: Eggs, peanuts, various spices that show up in Italian food (including pizza sauce), curry powder, chili powder, soy, milk.

Sanjiv can eat: Rice, pasta, potatoes, meats, most things without seasoning.

Also: “crisps,” soda, tinned spaghetti, beer.

Suzie is allergic to: MSG (makes her jaw clench up).

Suzie can eat: Anything except Chinese food, evidently.

Also: Top-shelf alcohols, especially wines. Claims to be allergic to the cheap stuff, but I think she's just a snob.

Jack is allergic to: Kumquats.

Jack can eat: Whatever he bloody well pleases.

Also: Scotch (Glenmorangie).

Jamie is allergic to: Shellfish, lobster. Vacationing in Cape Cod was a drag, let me tell you.

Jamie can eat: Crab, oddly enough. Most other things. Specific fondness for sweets of all kinds.

Also: Vodka. I don't get paid enough to be picky, but I try to make sure the bottles aren't plastic.

Jack says that I'm in charge of keeping the Hub well-stocked. Is it a bad thing when the liquor store people are starting to know you by name?

\--

April 14, 2000.

Dear Diary,

Today I attempted to socialize.

I went to a bar. I had a drink. I attempted a truly awkward conversation. I left quickly.

You know how, in America, UK accents automatically make the person twice as attractive as before? That doesn't work the other way around. Unless you're Jack, who still insists he's not American.

I need to keep making an effort, though. I can't deal with the Torchwood team being the whole of my human interaction.

\--

April 15, 2000.

WHAT THE HELL

I CAN'T BELIEVE THIS!

It's April, right, and I've been so busy that I didn't even realize, but today I had a moment of "IT'S APRIL!" So I looked up the baseball scores, and, shit, I still can't get over this. I go to look up the Brooklyn score, and there is no Brooklyn score.

Because the Dodgers moved. To Los Angeles. In the 1950s.

WHAT THE HELL IS WRONG WITH THIS UNIVERSE?

\--

April 18, 2000.

Dear Diary,

Yesterday, the Rift delivered unto us a bottle of what Jack calls Wezeni Harvest Whiskey. I'm not sure how he knows what it says, but maybe he's encountered it before. It's perfectly amber, and looks like it might be slightly radioactive. It's not, obviously, or he wouldn't have let us drink it. (I hope.)

We were just going to open it up in the Hub, but Jack told us to take it somewhere else. Sanjiv thinks Jack doesn't want to get close to anyone in case there's another massacre.

We ended up at Sanjiv's—his flat is walking-distance from the Hub, plus it's bigger than mine and cleaner than Suzie's. It was almost eight o'clock before we were able to leave, and we were all hungry, so we ordered some truly shitty pizza that at least didn’t make anybody sick. And then we drank.

Something about it makes you feel happy, sated, like you've just completed a good day's work, and it was a job well done. It makes you feel golden and warmed throughout. It's relaxing and soothing and remarkable. We settled back onto couch cushions and felt at peace.

And we talked. Suzie told us about her six months at Torchwood Two before Jack hired her. Its mailing address is some old manor house, but most employees are stationed at an outpost on Loch Ness. The entire thing is a feeding station and observatory for the Loch Ness monster, whose name is Gruoch. Suzie was a security guard there, and at the end of every shift she would go down to the observation tank and say goodbye, until finally it was the last goodbye, and she knew she wouldn't ever get to see Gruoch up close again.

Sanjiv told us about his first girlfriend, Anna. She was his last girlfriend, too: they were together from age twelve to age twenty-five. She learned how to cook for him. She died in a boating accident three months before they were supposed to get married. I don't think he knows I know, but he keeps their wedding bands in a box on his desk.

I told them about summers in Cape Cod, how once I stepped on a razor clam and it went right through my foot. About going on whale watches with my sisters, and the time that a Humpback whale and her calf swam right up next to the boat, and it was awesome and terrifying and beautiful all at once. About how I'm never going to see them again.

We talked about all these bittersweet things, and none of us felt any sadness or regret when we did. This is what Wezeni Harvest Whiskey does to you: It takes the pain away.

But writing this, the pain's all back. It's like any alcohol, the effects only last so long. But god, I would give anything to feel the pain go away again. Missing Home hurts so bad.

\--

April 19, 2000.

Dear Diary,

Today I got eaten by the slime monster in the archives. I don't know how long it had been there, because no one goes in the archives except for me, and I had never wandered that far back before. I was trying to lose myself in the hours of work to do.

And then I lost myself in the belly of a slime monster.

Jack made it throw me up, and then I lost myself in cleaning up slime, slimy vomit, and slimy corpse.

I've showered and changed three times already, and I still can feel the slime in my hair. I'm going to go take the longest shower ever, and then get myself very, very drunk.

\--

April 20, 2000.

Note to self: This is a bad, bad job to show up to while hungover. Especially since today was stall-mucking day down in the monster cages. We should hire a janitor.

\--

April 21, 2000.

Dear Diary,

No janitor, but we're hiring a doctor, at least. And by "we" I mean "Jack." Spent today on the phone with the list of candidates Suzie handed me: "Good afternoon, this is Jamie calling on behalf of Captain Jack Harkness of Torchwood. Yes, I am American, I think I remind Captain Harkness of home. Yes, he does have that reputation; no, I'm not calling to arrange a threesome, because he is my _boss_ and that would be highly unprofessional. We have a vacancy here at Torchwood, and the Captain was wondering if you'd be able to come down to Cardiff for an interview on Monday. Two o'clock. He'll meet you on the Plass. Have a nice day."

For someone with a reputation like Jack's, he's remarkably anti-social.

\--

April 24, 2000.

Dear Diary,

Today Jack interviewed several candidates, chief among them our new doctor, Catharine Forrest. She's _amazing_. This Irish accent to die for, eyes that you could stare into for hours, a smile that lights up the world. She almost inspires me to poetry. Give me another few hours in her presence, and I bet the sonnets will start writing themselves. God, work is going to be so much better with her around.

\--

April 25, 2000.

Catharine's first day! She smiled at me on her way in, and the whole tourist office smelled like cinnamon for an hour after she passed through it. But I hardly saw her the rest of the day, because Jack and Suzie and Sanjiv were showing her the ropes, while I was stuck up in the office selling postcards to tourists from Ohio.

But that one smile. I could live on a smile like that.

\--

April 26, 2000.

More smiles, and she even touched my hand when she was giving me her lunch order! She likes sweet things, strawberries and honey and mint and chocolate ice cream. We went out for a treat after work, to get to know each other and relax a little—her idea, because Catharine wants to get to know me. _Me_.

I had strawberry ice cream. She tried some of it, and on our way out, when she wasn't looking, I stole the spoon and took it home with me. Her lips touched it: I couldn't let it go.

\--

April 27, 2000.

Catharine smiled at Sanjiv today. And Jack. And Suzie. And they smiled back at her and fawned all over her and it's disgusting. She's too good for them. Oh, god, she's too good for me, too. She must know it; I must have done something wrong yesterday, because she didn't even look at me on her way in this morning. What if she keeps ignoring me?

I don't think I could stand it.

I can't stand it.

What if she never smiles at me again? I would die.

\--

April 28, 2000.

Catharine's gone home to move more of her things to Cardiff. I won't see her again until Monday. A whole weekend without Catharine—

I don't think I can do it.

It's all so empty with her gone.

\--

May 4, 2000.

Dear Diary,

Five days ago tried to kill myself in a fit of Catharine-induced despair. Turns out she was an alien who preys on the lonely. Fucking bitch.

Sanjiv's insisting on staying on my couch in my tiny little flat until he feels I'm safe to be alone. First thing he did was clean the flat from top to bottom to get rid of any lingering allergens, and also any caustic chemicals that could potentially be ingested.

I think he feels responsible for me because he found me, though Jack was the one who convinced the hospital that I didn't need to be institutionalized (again). I’m not sure how—I’m not sure I want to know how.

I'm grateful that they were worried enough when I didn't show up at work to come and break down my door. I'm grateful that they found me.

I hate that I have to be grateful—I hate that I put myself in the situation where they had to save my life.

\--

May 5, 2000.

Back at work today. Jack's not talking to me, Suzie's distant, and Sanjiv's _too_ attentive. Jack’s given me some kind of alien medication to heal the burns in my mouth and throat, but even then, it hurts to swallow; it hurts to breathe.

And yet I’ve spent another afternoon on the phone with candidates, lying that I have laryngitis. Most of them are call-backs from last time. Hopefully none of them are aliens.

\--

May 9, 2000.

Doctor Kenyatta White is the new hire. Under no circumstances is he to be referred to as Ken or Kenny, which I know because I asked him. One can't be too sure of these things. He's very tall, very pretty, but thankfully I am not inspired to poetry or suicide. He's probably not an alien, but I'm going to keep my distance anyway: He wants to check my mouth and throat in a day or two to make sure they’re healing properly, and I don’t think he meant it as a pick-up line, but you can never be too careful.

I suppose it's nice that he cares enough to check. Or else he's just doing his job.

\--

May 10, 2000.

Dear Diary,

Suzie says: Jack is back to form. Sanjiv says: Oh god my eyes. I say: So Kenyatta's gay? Good to know.

We have blackmail tapes. I'm going to use them to make our dear new doctor sterilize the med bay. One less job for me to do, especially if he and Jack plan to, uh, continue their fling. In public locations.

In other news, Sanjiv is complaining that my couch is bad for his back. I told him he could either buy me a new one or move back to his flat. I believe he's considering the purchase way more seriously than he should be. At least he keeps the place clean, but I miss my privacy.

_Torchwood Three Dietary Restrictions, Addendum_

Kenyatta is ~~allergic to~~ : Lactose intolerant.

Kenyatta can eat: Everything else.

Also: Curry and spicy things in general.

\--

May 11, 2000.

Dear Diary,

After work today, Suzie and I went out for a drink. Her idea, but I never turn down a trip to a bar. She had something expensive, and I had whichever beer was cheapest. They do have good beer here in Wales. We didn't talk about anything much—we need more cleaning supplies, we're out of soap in the main Hub bathroom, Kenyatta's got a really nice ass, whether he and Jack are a couple or just sleeping together—fairly meaningless small-talk that lasted us for a few drinks, because it'd been a long day and we were drinking kind of fast. And then Suzie turned to me and said:

"You know, when I got you out of Flat Holm, I thought I was saving you. I thought it was safe to tease you about your history because I figured you wouldn't be suicidal anymore once you were back out in the world. But now—I wonder if it was the right thing to do, to take you out."

I mean, fuck, what do you say to that? I managed to stammer something about being under alien influence that last time— _which is true!_ —but, Jesus.

I stammered for awhile, and she just _looked_ at me. Eventually I was able to form words enough to tell her that I'll be forever grateful to her for springing me out of Flat Holm, but now that I'm out, her job is done. She made the first step for me, but I have to keep on living. I have to save myself.

\--

May 12, 2000.

Dear Diary,

Had a meeting with Kenyatta today. He checked out my mouth, assured me that all was healing according to the alien medicine schedule. And then he took my psychiatric history, and advised me to seek therapy and medication.

Problems with that:  
1\. Any therapist who learns that I'm from another world is immediately going to assume I'm delusional and have me committed.  
2\. The medication I was on at Home has never been manufactured in this world, which I know because that was one of the first things I checked when I arrived. In my world, back Home, they've made huge advances in mental health treatment. Here, they're mapping the genome instead. Go figure.

Anyway, I've made it this long without my meds, I might as well keep trying to manage. As long as I avoid captivity and mind-warping aliens, I should be okay. I know that when I talk—when I write—about this, about suicide, about dying, it sounds flippant. But flippancy is how I keep myself going. I pretend it doesn’t matter because I can’t afford to dwell on it without getting lost.

Kenyatta was skeptical. That's fine. I realize it's not the most convincing argument, especially given my history and recent events. But I need to keep trying, and at least I know Kenyatta can help me out if I really feel like I need it.

But I won't. Because I'm going to be okay.

I have to be.  



	2. Chapter 2

May 15, 2000.

Four months now and it's my birthday. Alex and Sam were planning to come to New York and we were going to see a play and tour the Met and eat at some kind of expensive wine-and-cheese place, because we're all 25 now and officially Grown Up, so clearly the best thing to do would be to fully embrace our Adulthood and do all the things we're not really interested in but won't have time to do in ten years, just so we can say that we've done it. Anyway, there was supposed to be an exhibit opening last week on modern architecture and design that Alex really wanted to see, and another that was running for awhile on Parisian painters that we decided was a Must, because if you're at the Met and you _didn't_ go see the Monet and Picasso exhibit, people are going to look at you funny.

But none of that's ever going to happen. I'm twenty-five and officially Grown Up and it's not anything like I thought it would be.

Sanjiv offered to take me to the National Museum, but it's not the same.

It’s almost stopped hurting when I swallow, so I think I might just go out to a pub and get drunk. It's worked for enough of my other birthdays; why should this one be any different?

\--

May 16, 2000.

The following is an attempt at reconstructing last night's activities.

9:00 PM - Go to pub. Drink.

9:30? PM - Start chatting with Sandra. Blonde, but obviously not naturally. Curvy. Really pretty blue eyes.

9:45? PM - Sandra's twin brother arrives, Evan. Tall. Stubbly. Dark-haired. Same blue eyes.

10:00? PM - Holding a conversation at the bar becomes difficult. Adjourn to a different pub where we can get a table.

10:15 PM to 12:00 AM - Much drinking. Some dancing. Lots of flirtatious looks and accidental touches, followed by non-accidental touches.

12:00 AM to ??? - Taxi. Sandra's apartment. In bed with the two of them, me in the middle. Lots of fun, a good bit sore. Lots more drinking afterwards to keep the glow going. At least another time after that, possibly two. It's a little hazy; I might've fallen asleep. God, but it was incredible.

5:00 AM? - Back to the flat. Wearing Evan's shirt because Sandra was sleeping on mine and I didn't feel like moving her. Still drunk. Think I woke up Sanjiv on my way in.

After that - ???

11:03 AM - Woke up in my bed. Not in Evan's shirt. Not in anything, actually. Think I might have slept with Sanjiv, but can't be sure. Am extremely late for work.

Don't really give a fuck, but I think that Jack is pounding on my door. More when I get a chance.

\--

May 17, 2000.

Definitely slept with Sanjiv. He's in the process of moving out as I write and refuses to look me in the eye.

He and I will be fine after a little while. Mostly I'm worried about the teasing we'll get from Suzie, but I think if I mention the Welsh sex twins then either she or Jack will get distracted and we'll be okay.

I just hope Sanjiv realizes he doesn't need to feel like this is a betrayal of Anna. I can't be sure what's going through his head, but it's occurred to me that I might have been the first person he's slept with since she died, even though that was almost four years ago.

If so, that would be monumentally awkward—which is probably why I suspect it's true.

\--

May 18, 2000.

We've started trying to do group lunches once a week in the conference room—Kenyatta's idea, of course; he thinks we’ll be a better team if we actually ever talk to each other. I get to come down from the tourist office, and we gather in the conference room and eat. It's almost like a normal workplace, except we talk about aliens instead of Eastenders.

Today, though, we were talking about this Hurk that Jack once knew (that's almost always how his stories begin—"I knew this [insert alien here] once," it's kind of like MadLibs but darker and more illegal), and then Sanjiv says, "Hey, that smells good," and dips a ~~chip~~ _French fry, goddammit_ into Kenyatta's lunch.

Kenyatta's lunch, which was chicken and peanut satay, and smelled absolutely divine, and absolutely fatal for Sanjiv to eat. (Note to self: Definitely need to see about getting an EpiPen into the Hub; now that we have a legitimate doctor, it should be easier.)

Having taken all of our medical histories, and being well aware of Sanjiv's myriad allergies, Kenyatta grabbed the fry away and began lecturing in full-on Angry Doctor Voice. I've heard The Voice myself, but usually from doctors of a more psychiatric persuasion. It was pretty scary. But what was scarier was knowing what could have happened. It kind of shook us all, although Sanjiv seemed…almost numb, which was a shock in itself. Sanjiv's _never_ careless about his allergies; he never reaches over and steals someone's food without knowing what's in it.

After lunch, I was cleaning up the conference room, because Jack always drops crumbs everywhere, and there's always a handful of napkins that don't make it into the wastebasket, and, frankly, the less time I spend in the tourist office the better. I was on my way out, back up to the office, when I heard a high-pitched whirring noise, and then Jack yelled and Suzie shot Sanjiv's desk. Then there was more yelling, along the lines of, "ATRAXIAN NEURON BOMB," "COULD HAVE WIPED THE BRAINS OF EVERYONE IN CARDIFF," and "WHY DO YOU THINK I GAVE YOU THE GODDAMN INSTRUCTION MANUAL?"

Yeah. Makes dealing with over-excited grandmothers and their apathetic teenage grandkids a lot more tolerable.

Then later, towards the end of the day, Jack stopped by my desk. "You and Sanjiv," he said. "I've got nothing to say against employee fraternization, but in this instance I've gotta say that you really fucked up."

Conversations you never want to have with your boss: That one.

Jack said: "Here's the deal. I'm going to take Sanjiv out to a pub, I'm going to slip him a dose of Retcon, and I'm going to take him home and put him to bed. He's not going to remember the last two days, except as a kind of fever dream, and we're all going to tell him that he was sick with a virus, so we moved him back to his own flat to recover. Now do you think you can go along with that, or am I going to have to Retcon you too?"

Suzie told me about Retcon when I first started, part of the Standard Orientation Process; it's this pill from the future that wipes your memory for hours or days or years. Scares me shitless—I've got grandparents in nursing homes, I've seen what it's like for people to lose their memories. I can’t imagine forgetting everything important to you, by age or by a pill. "I won't say a word to him."

Jack tossed me a pill bottle from his coat pocket. "Keep that in your desk drawer anyway. Just in case I need it."

I'd be mad that he doesn't trust me, except I'm not sure I'd trust me either. But there's no way I'm letting myself get Retconned.

\--

May 19, 2000.

Dear Diary,

Two things happened today: The Hurk came to visit and Kenyatta met his first alien. I suppose technically that's one thing, as the second happened as a direct result of the first.

Let me back up a bit. I was sitting at my desk, typing up a memo (TO: Torchwood Three Staff, FROM: Jamie, RE: I Don’t Know Whose Job It Is to Clean the Sentient Green Fuzz from the Refrigerator but It’s Definitely Not Mine), when in walked this seven-foot-tall purple alien, with a face half as long as its body, and spiked elbows and feet. It gurgled at me. I pressed the panic button.

Jack took his sweet time arriving, during which the Hurk kept gurgling and I ~~hid under my desk~~ ~~had a panic attack~~ ~~begged for my life~~ tried valiantly to engage it in conversation. From behind a rack of postcards. When Jack finally ambled in, the Hurk gurgled even louder and swept him up in what was either a passionate embrace or an attempt to suck Jack's brains from his skull, and I'm still not sure which. This, of course, is when Kenyatta rushed in.

"I heard the panic signal, I thought you might need a— _oh my fuck_ ," said Kenyatta. "It's killing Jack! It's kissing Jack!" And then he rushed straight at the Hurk and began beating it with his medical kit. Then he accidentally ran himself through on one of the Hurk's elbow spikes and began bleeding out on the floor.

I'm sorry I sound flippant, Diary. I shouldn’t be, not about this. I'm very drunk. It becomes a bit of a necessity when one spends one's afternoon staunching a gaping chest wound and accompanying one's coworker to the hospital. Sanjiv couldn't do it because Sanjiv is still mentally delicate, and Suzie was busy trying not to explode a ray gun or something. I, being already bloody, was the perfect candidate. Jack is too important to go do something that menial.

I guess that settles if they were a couple or if they were just fucking. For Kenyatta, the former. For Jack, the latter. For the rest of us, a big mess.

So. Kenyatta. Big sucking chest wound. Purple alien. Jack.

One more drink and then I get to go back to the hospital to see Kenyatta come out of surgery. Wish me luck.

\--

May 20, 2000.

Made it home at…five AM? Not sure. Collapsed on the couch and was woken up two hours later by Jack calling an emergency Saturday meeting at the Hub, where the Hurk was still lurking, looking shrunken but still deadly, and following Jack around like a puppy dog. I spent the rest of the day hiding in the archives, occupying myself with mindless non-emergency filing.

Topic of the meeting: Kenyatta, of course. His cover story is that he was stabbed, probably in the course of a robbery. My cover story is that I was meeting him for a pint after work and found him moments after the stabbing; there was someone running away, but I was too busy staunching the sucking chest wound to notice any pertinent details.

The story’s only a temporary fix, but it's the first time my created identity has had to stand up to any sort of scrutiny. I'd be lying if I said I wasn't nervous. I'd be lying even more if I said I wasn't completely exhausted and in desperate need of sleep.

I hope Kenyatta will be all right.

\--

May 21, 2000.

Visited Kenyatta in the hospital today. Jack was there already, so I tried to leave, but he wouldn't let me. So I sat in one chair, he sat in the other, Kenyatta was unconscious in bed (and looking so pale; I didn't think it was possible for him to look so pale), the monitors beeping to provide the only noise in the room. I watched the slow, slow rise and fall of Kenyatta's chest. Jack, I think, watched me.

Eventually Jack stood up and handed me a folded piece of paper—Kenyatta’s contract, with emergency contact numbers scrawled in Kenyatta’s almost-illegible doctor's script. "Call his mother," Jack said, answering my unspoken question. "Let me know when she gets here, and try not to say too much."

Because he's going to Retcon her. Has _already_ Retconned her, by the time I'm writing this. Shit. He Retconned Kenyatta, too, slipped a pill or two in with his medication. Kenyatta's not going to remember anything. Not me, not Jack, not Torchwood. He'll wake up in Wales with a stab wound and will probably wonder which of those is worse.

He's going to be so confused. Suzie and I have already written his cover story—a second, less impromptu one, one that Sanjiv's already rewriting across the hospital's records.

This might be the worst thing I've ever done.

\--

May 23, 2000.

_News brief:_

_On 9 May, Dr. Kenyatta White left his home in London with no notice to anyone, and was found two weeks later in Cardiff, delirious and bleeding out from a stab wound to the chest. A bystander staunched the bleeding until White was transported to hospital, where doctors completed a successful operation to repair the damage done by the assault. However, blood tests revealed a number of illegal substances in White's bloodstream. White has no clear memories of the past two weeks and is returning to England to convalesce. It is suggested that, upon his recovery, White will no longer practice medicine but focus his efforts on medical research._

\--

May 24, 2000.

Dear Diary,

We have a high turnaround for doctors here at Torchwood Three. Time to hire another one, but Jack's not even going to bother having me call candidates this time. Instead, he's hand-picked one.

The Hurk.

Its name is ~~Glough~~ ~~Glouagh~~ ~~Glwack~~ ~~Galogh~~ really hard to say and spell, so it's given us permission to call it Glow. (Jack says that Hurk are an ungendered race, so in lieu of actually having a neuter pronoun in English, he’s given us permission to call it “it,” because we really needed permission for that, thanks, Jack.) And, also according to Jack, it feels very bad about accidentally stabbing Kenyatta and so is coming to work for Torchwood by way of apology.

Evidently this makes sense in alien logic. Personally, I'd feel a lot better about Glow's supposed doctoring skills if it had bothered trying to help when Kenyatta was bleeding out instead of just standing there gurgling and sucking Jack's face. Clearly its priorities are a little fucked up.

Also, Glow doesn't speak English. Jack's trying to fit it with some kind of translator device, which Sanjiv's working on with much more interest and enjoyment than I think is necessary. Then again, Sanjiv wasn't there. Probably for the best: I don't think he'd have done very well if faced with all that blood.

\--

May 25, 2000.

Realized today that no one had ever bothered cleaning the bloodstains from the floor of the tourist office. So I stuck up a sign that said "CLOSED FOR REPAIRS," pulled the shades, and scrubbed.

Have just finished, and my skin is by turns torn and pruny.

I am going to go home and drink myself sick.

\--

May 26, 2000.

That was a bad idea; my throat is burning all over again. Still: have lived to drink another day.

For instance: Tonight. With Suzie.

Wish me luck.

\--

May 27, 2000.

Last night started with Suzie directing me to her car, yelling at me for trying to get into the driver's seat (I'm still not used to that whole "Driving on the left side of the road" thing that they have going on here), and, once I was in the correct seat, she handed me two bottles of expensive wine and drove us to my flat, because hers was covered in bits and pieces of exploded experiments.

I think Suzie is a bit of a mad scientist, to be honest.

We got to the flat, I tossed out a few empty take-away cartons, moved some piles of junk mail, and then we sat on my couch and drank, and talked about poetry.

I'm not sure how we got to that subject, to be honest. We might have been talking about how at least Kenyatta wasn't dead, but he might as well have been for all we'd see of him, and…

Yeah. That's how we got there. I was spouting off bullshit philosophy about death that I picked up from my senior thesis: Themes of Death and Dying in the Poetry of Emily Dickinson. Fifty pages of depression. I'm not proud.

It interested Suzie, anyway. So we drank, and I told her about it, and I promised to lend her a book of Dickinson poems, which would work great, except that I was forgetting that I don't have any of my old books anymore. They do have Dickinson in this world, thank god. Most of the poems are even the same.

I guess that means I'll have to get her a book. Suzie doesn’t like it if you don't follow through on promises.

That was last night. Drinking and death and dying and a whole lot of depressing shit. Suzie dragged herself home about an hour ago, and now I myself am going to go back to bed and sleep for the entire rest of the day.

\--

May 29, 2000.

Dear Diary,

Turns out that Glow's not that bad of a doctor. Jack got hurt pretty badly by a T'fayn grenade that came through the Rift today, but a few hours in the med bay and he looked the same as ever. Then he gave me his coat to take the dry cleaner's and I knew he was feeling all right. Must be some kind of alien med-tech. I wonder if Sanjiv knows anything about it.

\--

May 30, 2000.

Dear Diary,

I asked Sanjiv about the med-tech, but he says that he doesn't know anything about it. He doesn't go in the medbay much—well, neither do I. It's strange to see it as a place of work rather than a place of captivity, even now.

"Even now," as if it's been years. It's only been four months since I fell through, just over a month since I've been working here. I shouldn't have adjusted so fast.

\--

May 31, 2000.

At lunch today I went out to pick up a sandwich or a slice of pizza or something; the sun was shining even if there was a bit of a chill when the wind blew. I try to get as much sun as I can, which isn't usually much. But I try.

I sort of knew it might happen eventually, that I might meet somebody I knew, from Home. I'd hoped it wouldn't; I'm in Cardiff, after all. There aren't many familiar faces for me here. Except family.

On my way to get lunch, I ran across my Aunt Megan, my grandmother's older sister. She looked exactly the same: the feathery white hair, the cane with hot pink fabric wrapped around the handle for a better grip, too much lipstick. And I looked at her, and she looked at me, and she said (with the same slightly quavering voice), "Do I know you? Have we met before?"

And I said, "No," and I made myself smile politely before I walked away. Because we haven't met, because I don't exist. Because it doesn’t matter that I could show up at a family reunion and not look out of place in the family pictures.

Then I went back to the tourist center, sat at my desk, and sorted paperwork until Jack came up and told me to go home, it was eight o'clock and I should have left hours ago.

I don't know where the time went. I didn't even notice Suzie and Sanjiv leave.

\--

June 1, 2000.

Today was our first group lunch since—I don’t know if I should say “since Glow arrived” or “since Kenyatta left,” because Glow didn’t arrive so much as smash its way in, and Kenyatta didn’t leave so much as was rushed away via ambulance. I guess “since Glow stabbed Kenyatta in the stomach” will suffice. It’s more descriptive, anyway.

So. We had lunch. Glow doesn’t get the concept of chairs very well. Since Hurks are so spiky at the joints, they mostly prop themselves up against things. This produces highly amusing results when tried with rolling office chairs. I may have laughed slightly louder than necessary, but I guess I just hold a grudge when it comes to aliens who have almost killed my friends.

I miss Kenyatta. He was the only one who didn’t treat me like a curiosity. Suzie tries, but it doesn’t always work; she’s so young—although, so am I—but I think sometimes she wants people to be as easily dissectible as machinery. If only that were the case.

All through lunch today, after Glow had decided that leaning against the wall was safer than leaning against the chairs, and Suzie and Sanjiv and I were sitting at the table, it was like—like Glow was watching me, the entire time. Listening to our conversation and trying to understand it, wanting to communicate but not able to. Sanjiv’s still working on the translator.

At least when I fell through the Rift, I landed here, and not on some alien planet. Glow is entirely alone.

It’s got Jack, at least. Thank fuck for that, I almost talked myself into feeling sorry for the purple bastard.

\--

June 3, 2000.

Dear Diary,

Ventured out to a bookstore today and picked up two copies of Emily Dickinson’s collected works, one for me and one for Suzie. I may not be proud of my thesis, but I still enjoy the poetry. Besides, Emily Dickinson knew what it was like to be both lonely and alone. Most poets do, though. People who are content with their lives rarely write good poetry.

That said, it takes more than just loneliness to be a good poet. Anyone who’s ever read a sixteen-year-old’s journal could tell you that. But Dickinson had that extra quality, and had a detachment from her own life as well as a detachment from the world.

I envy the ability to be detached, sometimes. I’m _too_ attached, and care too much. I’m like some kind of emotional octopus, suction cups and all.

And this is why I will never be a great poet, because I just wrote the phrase “emotional octopus” and meant it. Maybe it’s just as well I’m never going to get around to finishing that MFA.

\--

June 4, 2000.

Dear Diary,

The whole point of that last entry was that I went to the bookstore and got books, because I haven’t bought any since I got the ones on Welsh history for work. I thought, maybe I’ll bring a book to work and read it instead of playing solitaire on the computer for hours. So I got the Dickinson, of course, and some authors who I don’t recognize because they probably don’t exist back Home. A book on the Kennedy assassination, because I want to know what exactly went differently here that they couldn’t figure out who killed him.

This entry’s turning out as depressing as the other. I’m not sure if I should try to cheer myself up or grab a bottle of wine and let myself sink.

\--

June 6, 2000.

Dear Diary,

Suzie liked the Dickinson. She was probably lying, but I’ll take a smiling lie over the alternative.

Sanjiv finally finished Glow’s translator. It’s not very pretty, and I’m not sure how it works, but it looks kind of like a headband with a couple of pillboxes on it. Every time Jack looks it, he tries not to laugh.

Speaking of Jack… He clearly doesn’t miss Kenyatta much—now that Glow’s got the translator, we can understand everything they say. Let’s just say that Glow doesn’t have much subtlety, and Jack’s not exactly discriminating when it comes to his sexual partners. Or the locations they have sex in. I wonder how many people he’s fucked in the medbay, since he’s made a habit of it with Glow and Kenyatta both. (Suzie wanted to know if Glow had, and I quote, “boy parts or girl parts.” I didn’t check, and with that whole ungendered thing I’m not even sure if it _has_ “parts” and I don’t want to know either way. Glow needs to learn how to learn the volume down on the translator, or I’m going to find a way to accidentally break it one of these days.)

This is where Jack’s reputation comes from, evidently. Anyone, anywhere, any species. I’m not sure if this is a sign of healing or something, or if it counts as self-destructive behavior. I’m also not sure which of those is better. It would be pretty amusing to see Jack self-destruct in the middle of boning an alien.

Which would mean I’d have to watch them. Never mind. I’ll send flowers to the funeral.

\--

June 8, 2000.

Dear Diary,

I was working down in the archives today, technically re-alphabetizing but more accurately reading about Huiaaarian mating rites. (This particular rite involved twins. It caught my attention.) I tend to get absorbed in my reading, so when Glow shuffled around the corner and its electronic voice box said, “Excuse me, Jamie my co-worker,” I might have yelled a little bit.

“I did not mean to be causing you to startle,” Glow said. The voice Sanjiv programmed is crackly with static and vaguely feminine, still too loud, and down in the archives it echoed like crazy. “I wanted that we should have a conversation. You do not like me.”

I had _so many answers_ to that, diary. Finally I settled on, “I don’t have to. But I have work to do, and I’d appreciate it if you’d leave me alone. Also, turn down the volume on your voice-box, it’s ear-shattering.”

“Jack likes it,” Glow started to say, but I interrupted:

“Do you think I care? Because let me tell you, I don’t give a damn what Jack likes! He is not the only person here, and if you’re going to work here, you should remember that! And if you can’t, then get the hell out so I can alphabetize in peace.”

As rants go, it probably scores in the all-time bottom twenty. Depending on what Glow tells Our Great Captain, I may or may not have a job tomorrow.

I also may or may not have taken an alien laser gun from the archives. Just in case.

\--

June 10, 2000.

Dear Diary,

Turns out to be a good thing that I took that laser gun (Tsaatian Personal-Use Beam Pistol, to be exact), because the Tsaatians came to visit and they wanted their weapons cache back. They look kind of like birds, but they die just like humans when you shoot them.

Jack says I got lucky. He says that since I insist on carrying a weapon, he’s going to give me gun training.

\--

June 12, 2000.

“Gun training” evidently euphemistic.

Am very drunk right now. Am about to go get drunker. Don’t wait up.

\--

June 13, 2000.

Sober now, wish I wasn’t.

I didn’t have sex with Jack, but he tried. I ignored it while he was teaching me to actually hit the target, but then after—

Anyway. I shot him. I don’t think he was expecting that.

\--

June 14, 2000.

I started packing yesterday, not that I have much to pack, or much money to go anywhere. But if I’m going to be fired—which is more or less guaranteed—then I may as well get the hell out of Cardiff.

I think, if I sell some of the things from the apartment, I might be able to scrape together enough money to buy a plane ticket to New York and have a little left over. God only knows what I’ll do when I get there, but if I’m going to be lost and on my own, I’d rather do it on familiar territory. I don’t relish the idea of rebuilding everything—again—and there’s a much greater chance of meeting a friend who has no idea who I am, but at least in New York there aren’t aliens and mind-wiping drugs and monsters.

Probably still bosses who want to fuck you, though. But probably not bosses who keep you prisoner, then release you, then hire you, and then eventually try to fuck you.

Tomorrow it will have been six months since I fell through the Rift. If I can’t fall back Home, then I can at least get myself as close to Home as possible.

\--

June 15, 2000.

Six months.

My doorbell rang at 6:30 AM. I’d called a cab for 7, thought it might have been early, and answered the door.

It was Jack.

I killed Jack three days ago. Or I thought I did—I shot him in the stomach from six feet away, and I’m pretty sure the amount of blood loss he sustained was too much to keep living. And even if it wasn’t, three days is too soon to be up and walking around. But there doesn’t seem to be a scratch on him.

“I cancelled your plane ticket,” he said. “You should come back to work.”

“You’re a controlling bastard,” I said.

“I’ve heard that before. Currently, I’m controlling your job security by telling the others that you’ve come down with a rare but highly contagious strain of Second Mirazian Pox and should be left alone until the sickness wears its course.”

“Which is why you can visit me without worrying about getting sick.”

“I’ve been immunized. Come back to work.”

“Why?” I asked him. “It’s not as though you need me.”

“There are three storerooms of artifacts filed according to the phonetic alphabet.”

Even then: I’m not needed for me, but for what I can do. “I’m not convinced.”

Jack gave me a long-suffering look. “Repeat after me: !xNkrgh.”

“…Ix-ink-ragga?”

“No. And our last archivist couldn’t pronounce it either, which is why an alphabetic system is highly preferred. He might’ve been a little wrong in the head.”

The prospect of long hours of sorting and re-filing and undoing my evidently crazy predecessor’s mistakes didn’t exactly enthrall me, although the idea of discovering new and interesting alien artifacts does (but only a little). Jack’s a manipulator, and he wants me back at Torchwood because I would be useful. More than that, he knows that I enjoy _being_ useful. “Fine,” I said.

He couldn’t even hide how triumphant he looked. “Need help unpacking? I’m pretty good with my hands.”

As if I’d want to spend any more time with him than necessary. “Get out, Jack. And I can still change my mind, so if you want to see me at work tomorrow, you won’t touch me ever again—not to help me, not to hurt me, not for anything unless I say so and I don’t think I will.”

I’m not sure if he expected that or not; he looked such a mix of emotions that his expression didn’t reveal anything at all. “Permission in advance to touch you if it’s necessary to save your life.”

So military. Of course I said yes, because we deal with bloodthirsty aliens, and quite frankly I’d rather not die in the line of duty, although it’s probably preferable to whatever alien illness I’m supposed to be sick with.

The status quo resumes tomorrow. I need to go unpack.

\--

June 16, 2000.

I was greeted today with well-wishes and smiles from Sanjiv and Suzie, and careful avoidance from both Glow and Jack. I couldn’t have asked for a better day.

Except for the flesh-eating slug hiding behind one of the filing cabinets, but Glow says my ankle shouldn’t scar too badly, and, well, we can’t have everything, can we? Although it’s only been six hours and I’m already sick of using crutches.

\--

June 17, 2000.

I remember when I used to be able to go out, have a good time, go home with someone—or even date someone, and what a foreign concept that is now. I went out to a pub (I already gave up on crutches; at least limping is a conversation-starter), had a drink, and…

There was this girl, this woman, about my age. Pretty, glasses, brown hair. She was looking at me, and I was looking at her, and—I just couldn’t. I wanted to go over, have a conversation, become friends or maybe more, and—I couldn’t. All I could think of was _Torchwood_ , and how I could explain mysterious injuries or an alien coworker, or the time that I shot my boss and was really a little disappointed that he didn’t die. And I can’t. I can’t talk to anyone about this. For all that I have my life and my freedom and a place to call my own, Torchwood is a prison in and of itself.

Before I left, I paid the bartender for her next drink. It was the least I could do.

\--

June 20, 2000.

Today is Kenyatta’s birthday.

I called him, pretended to be conducting some kind of marketing survey, just so I could talk with him and make sure that he was all right.

He’s not all right, although he’s doing a good job of hiding it. I hate what we did to him.

\--

June 23, 2000.

Went out for drinks with Suzie tonight; my throat’s finally healed, but it probably would’ve healed quicker if I hadn’t been drinking so much. We talked a lot of Emily Dickinson; Suzie’s been enamored ever since I gave her the book. Most of the rest of the conversation was about the various possible uses for the vibrating, gelatinous orb that Jack wouldn’t allow us to touch.

Reminded me a lot of college, really.

\--

June 26, 2000.

Orb is a sex toy, we were right. Gel conforms to body part it is placed on, evidently very pleasurable. Unfortunately, the reason I know this is because I stumbled on our esteemed captain and resident alien experimenting with it.

Tomorrow I’m making Jack buy me a new desk chair.

\--

June 30, 2000.

_Obituary (excerpt):_

_London. Dr. Kenyatta White, suddenly on 29 June, aged 37. Survived by his mother Rebecca (nee Okech), sister Irene Tsingalia, and brother Akivaga. A private memorial service will be held. In lieu of flowers, the family asks that donations be made to Médecins Sans Frontières._

_Autopsy report (excerpt):_

_Injection mark in left arm (syringe found at scene). … Cause of death: Injection of potassium chloride. Appears to be self-inflicted._

\--

July 2, 2000.

I went to the train station today. I was planning to go to London and—I don’t know. Do something symbolic, for Kenyatta. But I couldn’t. I just stood in the station, watching the arrival times, and feeling people flow around me as if I didn’t exist. And then I went back to my apartment and did nothing.

I am very good at doing nothing. Clearly I was never meant to be one of the movers and shakers of the world.

\--

July 4, 2000.

Funny thing, when you wear red, white, and blue in Wales it has a completely different meaning than when you do in America. We did go on a picnic today, but that was mostly because we needed to retrieve a crash-landed alien satellite dish and got stuck there over lunch.

Not much of an Independence Day, really. At least at the end of it there was beer.

\--

July 5, 2000.

Today on the way to work, I saw a woman coming towards me. She was all in beige—her skin was beige, her coat was beige, her shirt was beige, her skirt was beige, her hat and scarf were beige (and I remember thinking she was dressed unseasonably warmly), and her purse was beige. Her hair and shoes, I will admit, were taupe. And she looked at me with these clear, colorless eyes, and said: “Help me.” And then she died.

And then I woke up.

\--

July 7, 2000.

I saw the woman again today. This time I was awake.

I was helping Suzie tranquilize a Weevil when I the woman appeared at the end of the alleyway. She lifted her hand towards me and then disappeared. I must have made some kind of noise of surprise, because then the Weevil tried to rip out my jugular.

Ever since I “recovered” from my “illness,” Jack’s got me out in the field every third day at least. I much preferred sitting at my desk and cowering when necessary.

He might be trying to get me killed, though god knows there must be better ways to do it than this. If he is trying to get me killed, it’ll probably work—I’m not especially coordinated and I tend to do more harm to myself than to anyone else ( _see also:_ bites, Weevil-inflicted; slugs, flesh-eating; slime monsters, being consumed by).

\--

July 10, 2000.

I was on the Plass today with Sanjiv and Jack (I had volunteered to go pick up curry; Sanjiv had volunteered to go with me; and I think Jack just wanted to look at Sanjiv’s ass) when the woman appeared again. Monochrome. Bland. Unsettling eyes. “Weird,” Sanjiv said, and I said:

“You can see her?”

And Jack said, “That’s an alien, an Elmuthalleth. Not very good at camouflage, they always look just a little bit off. You’ve seen her before?”

“Yeah,” I said. “The first time I saw her was in a dream. The second time I thought I was hallucinating.”

The woman—alien—stumbled towards us. “Help me,” she begged, and collapsed.

It’s almost exactly what I dreamed, and I told Jack that, later, loitering in the doorway of his office. Most of our conversations are held across rooms or separated by furniture. “Elmuthalleth are a telepathic race,” he said. “You were probably the easiest one to communicate with. No psychic shields at all, and I’d offer to teach you but I don’t like wasting offers that I know are gonna be turned down.”

What could I say? “Thanks for the consideration.”

After the woman/alien (she’s still in human form; it’s confusing) collapsed, Jack moved her to the med bay for Glow to look after. Thus far she’s still alive, but they don’t know what’s wrong with her yet. Glow’s running tests. Suzie, Sanjiv, and I are supposed to keep away in case she has some kind of contagious disease, but Suzie thinks that alien physiology doesn’t work that way, and that the alien and human immune systems are probably completely incompatible, but she shut up when Sanjiv pointed out that I had only recently recovered from alien flu.

Consequently, Sanjiv’s staying as far away as possible, and Suzie goes down to the med bay just for the sake of annoying Jack. I’ll stay on the stairs if I have to go near at all. Probably says more about the three of us than it does about anything else.

\--

July 11, 2000.

The woman (Jack says her name is Illa) officially became an alien today—in body, I mean; Glow was running some kind of scan when she started writhing and all of a sudden popped out two extra arms and turned white. Not pale—white, like paper. Her (its?) eyes are big and gold and so long-lashed that I don’t know how she can see without her eyelashes getting in the way.

Maybe she’s from a desert planet. Would explain why she was so cold in Cardiff.

\--

July 12, 2000.

I looked it up when I was in the archives: I was right. Elmuthalleth live on a planet of perpetual sun and sand-storms. Literally, perpetual sun—they have two suns, and at least one of them is always in the sky.

I mentioned it to Jack, that we should bring in a sun lamp or something; the Hub’s dim and cold, practically the opposite of what she’s used to. (Is used to? Will be used to? I don’t know.) He told me to go ahead and order one if I wanted, but that she probably wasn’t going to last long enough to use it. Illa had been screaming today, curled up from pain, and Glow had her drugged to insensibility on the alien equivalent of morphine.

I ordered a lamp anyway, rush delivery. It’s coming out of Torchwood’s bank account, not mine.

\--

July 14, 2000.

Today the lamp arrived and I set it up in the med bay, mostly out of Glow’s way, but aimed to give Illa as much light possible. She smiled at me dazedly and said something in a language that sounded like sighing. It was the first sound I’ve hear her make; other than the screaming two days ago, there’s been a semi-constant whimpering, but nothing else.

 _Sit with me,_ she said, and I realized that the first time she’d spoken with her mouth, but this time she’d spoken with her mind.

So I did, bringing a chair down from the main Hub. Illa took my hand in one of hers and weakly raised two of her others to the lamp in greeting. _Thank you,_ she said. _It has been time and many times since I have seen the suns._

Having her talk to my mind—I don’t know how to describe it. It was like when you were a kid, before you’d discovered personal space, and you’d sit extra close with your friends so that you could all squeeze into the smallest space possible. Like sitting next to a friend or a lover, not talking, but feeling their warmth and their presence and being comforted by that.

It was like that, except you weren’t feeling warmth, but fear.

 _I’ve been running,_ she said. _I thought the suns would burn me, so I ran. Some are good at running, or they are afraid of what happens when they stop. But I who am so weak, I am not good at running. I could not catch my breath, and I fell. When I fell, I found you waiting for me, you who also have fallen._

And then she reached up and stroked my cheek with one hand, touched the bridge of my nose with another, and said, _There are unique sorrows across many worlds, sorrows that are not shared. But this will be our great sorrow._ And then her eyes closed, her arms fell, and white smoke began to rise from her skin (as far as I know, the smoke hasn’t stopped; it’s like she’s slowly evaporating).

That was when Glow rushed me to the chemical shower. But I think I’m with Suzie: Jack was lying about my illness, after all. Alien and human physiology probably isn’t actually compatible.

\--

July 15, 2000.

Jack called me in on a Saturday to debrief everything that Illa said to me. It’s none of his business except that it might (he says) help him and Glow figure out what killed her.

He doesn’t seem to believe that it could have been grief.

Seven months.

\--

July 16, 2000.

Full moon tonight. Nothing much else to say, but I can’t sleep, so I’m sitting up and watching the moon. When I’m tired enough, it’s almost like being Home, and I fall asleep content and happy. But it hurts so much when I wake up in the morning.

\--

July 18, 2000.

Jack and Glow got into a fight today (verbal, not physical, more’s the pity). I was passing through the Hub on my way up from the archives when I heard them—it seems like a stupid thing to fight about, honestly. What I understand from my eavesdropping is that Glow only now finished running the tests he started on Illa, figuring it didn’t matter much because she was dead. I heard something about the ~~autopsy~~ xenopsy, too, and the smoke that kept rising from her skin.

My biggest fight today was with the sentient dust bunnies in one of the artifact storerooms. We all have our problems.

\--

July 19, 2000.

Dust bunnies have agreed to stay out of my way provided I bring them a weekly tribute of nutella and cheese. (They’re angora dust bunnies; very particular in their tastes.) I told them that if they’re thinking of making diplomatic overtures towards the human race, they’ve probably come to the right archives.

Suzie thinks I’m lying about the dust bunnies, but refuses to come down to see for herself.

I think that she’s just scared.

\--

July 20, 2000.

Evidently there is a war going on between the dust bunnies in Storeroom 6 and the dust chinchillas in Storeroom !, which are next door to each other. (The storerooms are: 6, !, J, j, 1, *, and Q. In that order. * is the only empty room, so I’m using it as a holding space while I catalog and re-file all the current artifacts.) I’ve now put in applications for diplomatic immunity and neutrality with both dust species, and will have to concentrate my efforts on J, j, 1, and Q until that gets settled. Hopefully there aren’t dust species in those rooms, too.

Jack finds this all enormously amusing, by the way. I think it’s a sign that a cleaning crew should have been hired decades ago.

\--

July 24, 2000.

Busy weekend; the whole team (except Glow) went to London chasing after some intergalactic art thieves. It was fun, once we sprang Jack out of prison. (Although that was fun too.) I pretended to be a tourist for the rest of the afternoon, which didn’t involve much pretending, and—it was so _normal_. It was relaxing.

And today we arrived back in Cardiff, went straight to the Hub, and found Glow passed out on the floor of the medbay. There wasn’t any sign that someone had broken in to the Hub, no alarms breached and nothing strange on the security cameras except for yesterday’s footage of Glow shuffling around the medbay until it just—fell.

Jack sent us all home and stayed in the Hub to monitor it, trying to figure out what’s wrong, to see if it’s sick or poisoned. I wonder if there’s some kind of curse on Torchwood doctors.

\--

July 26, 2000.

Think something might have died and gotten stuck in one of the vents from the outside to the Tourist Center. It was stifling all day and smelled awful. I spent an hour walking around Cardiff during lunch, just to get out, but it didn’t help much. Too hard to cool down, too hard to breathe. Suzie couldn’t find anything stuck in the vents, but there has to be something.

\--

July 27, 2000.

Suzie says she can’t smell anything, but she was on her way to London to deliver some Venusian grenades; I think she was probably distracted, but Sanjiv can’t smell it either. Jack only came up to the Tourist Center for a moment, and he didn’t smell it, but he seemed to believe me. I don’t know how they can’t: it’s sweet and noxious and pervasive, like decay.

Then again, none of them felt the heat, either.

\--

July 28, 2000.

Today Glow didn’t wake up and Sanjiv had an allergy attack.

I don’t remember anything else. Not arriving at work (though the cheese that I bought for the dust bunnies is gone), not coming home (though here I am, sitting on the couch, amid piles of dirty laundry). But I had to be at work, if I remember things that happened—right? I think Jack might have Retconned me, but that can’t be how it works, to leave me with all of a day gone except for two brief moments. When you’re Retconned, you don’t even know there’s something you’ve forgotten.

I’m—I’d say I’m scared, but this is Torchwood, there’s never a day when I’m not. I try not to think about it, but I know that any wrong move could get me retconned or sent back to Flat Holm or sent to some other, human, hospital where they’ll lock me up for being suicidal and delusional and maybe eventually convince me that Home doesn’t exist and everything I remember before January is a lie. But usually the fear is just sitting in the pit of my stomach. This fear is crawling on my arms and up the back of my neck.

I don’t want to fall asleep tonight because I’m afraid I won’t remember when I wake up in the morning. I’m afraid there won’t be a morning to wake up to.

\--

July 29, 2000.

Came into the Hub around 4am, even though it’s Saturday. Jack almost shot me. Not on purpose (I think), but because I surprised him.

Took my ~~laser gun~~ Tsaatian Personal Beam Pistol back out of the archives. Just in case I need it. Consequently, almost shot Sanjiv when he arrived at 7:30 to check on an experiment. I warned him not to carry a gun today to make sure he doesn’t shoot Suzie if she shows up unexpectedly.

Sanjiv did have an allergy attack yesterday; that did happen, I remember it right. He doesn’t know what he ate, though, and his throat’s been tight ever since, making it hard to breathe. With the stench in the Tourist Center, I’ve been having problems breathing myself.

When I went to the archives to get the laser gun, I smelled it there, too. And in the rest of the Hub. I don’t know why no one else can smell it.

_(later)_

Glow woke up around noon, sitting straight up before falling off the exam table and into a ball on the medbay floor, screaming. It sliced up Jack pretty badly by the time he got it back on the exam table, and Jack wouldn’t let me or Sanjiv help for fear we’d get hurt, which doesn’t make _any_ sense to me, by the way. So Jack’s bleeding, Glow’s screaming, and I’m standing around like an idiot when Sanjiv grabbed a stun gun from Suzie’s desk and temporarily put Glow out of its misery.

“That was like Illa,” I said. “The alien woman. The Elmuthalleth.”

Jack looked grim. “Yeah.”

“Illa died two days later.”

“Yeah. I was there.”

Liar. “Later, yeah, but Glow and I were—we were right there when—” He looked at me. Sanjiv looked at both of us, drawing the conclusion at the same time I was. “She was contagious.”

“Looks like,” Jack said, with way more cheerfulness than the situation merited, given that he was _bleeding_ and Glow was sill twitching. “But Glow got you under the chemical shower right away, so you should be fine. Glow said it was immune, but clearly it wasn’t telling the truth.”

Vaccinated against what? Why, Second Mirazian Pox, the very same disease I was supposed to have been sick from before. (Sanjiv noted this. I had to tell him that I’d shot Jack. It was awkward.) Evidently Jack was telling the truth about compatible physiologies, since he said that he’d been vaccinated for the pox when he was With The Agency. I am now working under the assumption that the CIA was (is still?) developing biological weapons based on extraterrestrial diseases, which I guess explains Area 51. It doesn’t explain how Jack got out of the CIA, but maybe transfers to Torchwood are allowed.

There’s too much going on. I’m not going to think too hard about the details of Jack’s history. All it means is that Jack isn’t going to get sick—but there’s a distinct possibility that Sanjiv, Suzie, and I are. Jack says Suzie will be safe in London; he’s calling Suzie to tell her to go to Unit (or UNIT), and calling Unit/UNIT to tell them to be ready to treat a potential pox case.

And us? Well, hopefully we won’t get sick.

\--

July 30, 2000.

Managed to sleep last night, but only for a few hours, so I went to work again early, for lack of anything better to do on a Sunday morning. Ran into Sanjiv on my way in to the Hub, introduced him to the dust chinchillas (the bunnies are not to be disturbed between the hours of midnight and 8am). He doesn’t look good; his eyes are puffy and he’s not breathing well.

And then Glow died. Evidently it’d been screaming in pain most of the night. Jack is a shit medic, although he seemed to have bandaged _himself_ well enough.

Glow’s skin turned to smoke, too, like Illa’s. That’s what the pox does to you, Jack says. Eats at you till you’re dust.

He says it starts with hallucinations or psychosomatic illnesses that tie into problems breathing. He says it continues with your internal organs withering away inside you. He says when you die, it’s not long until there’s nothing left.

He says they call it pox, but it started as poison. He says it brings madness in its wake.

At least now I know why I’m the only one who can smell the decay.

_(later)_

There’s a cure for the pox, but not one that we have in Cardiff. Suzie got the vaccination in time, but UNIT doesn’t have the cure.  
Jack is prepared to serve as nursemaid to our inevitable deaths. Sanjiv is praying. I’m contemplating the array of pills in the medbay.

What? If I’m going to die, I’d rather get it over with. But I can’t, not with Jack and Sanjiv here. I’m guaranteed to be stopped. Although there’s always—

Well. There are other options. But I won’t think about them right now.

\--

July 31, 2000.

Jack went out to get coffee this morning, and when he was gone, I locked down the Hub.

He was furious when he came back, but there’s nothing he can do. I’ve set it the Hub to unlock after 48 hours. That should be enough time.

I think he was surprised I even knew how to instigate a lockdown. I don’t know why. It’s in the training manual. It’s satisfying; I’ve finally done something Jack can’t interfere in.

I scared Sanjiv; I know I did. He doesn’t know what I’m doing. In fairness, I haven’t told him. He wouldn’t like it. I can’t say I blame him for avoiding me—but there’s only so many places to go, here in the Hub.

When I was a kid, my dog died, and my sisters and I buried him in the backyard. We were all little—maybe the oldest of us was nine—and even between the three of us, we couldn’t dig more than a shallow grave. But it was sufficient for a little while. Then it rained heavily for the first time since he died, and the grave washed out, and the corpse washed up, stinking and rotting and nightmarish. That’s what I smell now, all the time, the stink of death and decay hanging around me and around Sanjiv, in every corner of the Hub and into the archives.

In the medbay, Glow’s corpse is nothing but dust and bone. Tomorrow there may not even be bone.

\--

August 1, 2000.

Dear Diary,

The pain started slowly. It hit me before it hit Sanjiv; I think I became sick before Sanjiv. Probably I’m supposed to die before him.

But if that happened, he would have to clean up my corpse. I couldn’t let him do that. It wouldn’t be fair.

I found him at his desk, still tending his experiment. I asked what it was, once, but Sanjiv’s not good at translating into layman’s terms. I hope it’s nothing that can’t be continued by someone else.

The pain started slowly, so I went to find Sanjiv while I could still walk. “It started,” I told him. “The pain.” It hurt to talk.

“I’m sorry,” he said. “Can I do anything? I don’t think a paracetamol would help.” So rueful. So scared.

“No,” I said. And I said, “Sanjiv, we’re friends, right?”

And he looked surprised. And he said, “Of course.”

And I said, “Friends help each other, don’t they?”

“Yes,” he said. “What can I do, Jamie?”

I shook my head, and the pain spiked through me for a moment. “Nothing,” I said, “but I don’t want you to have hurt this way, to die like Illa and Glow.” And I kissed him. And then I shot him.

There wasn’t any dust from his body. I swept Glow’s remains from the exam table into the toxic waste bin. I laid Sanjiv on the table, covered him with a sheet; it was hard to carry him, the pain shivering through me faster and faster.

It hurts. It hurts so much. I can barely write this—I think I’ll start screaming soon. I don’t want to. I don’t want to die that way.

I’m not going to die that way.

It’s funny, sort of—after I fell through the Rift, back in January, I thought that I would die here in the medbay.

It looks like I was right.


End file.
